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3rn fBcmorg 

OF 

SARAH L. BARNES. 



Born, May 21, 1843. 
Died, Aug. 6, 1882. 





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" Like the forgotten fragrance of a flower 
Comes the remembrance of an earthly prayer : 
And froni thy mantle, like a soothing balm, 
There fal's on me the holy peace 
That passeth understanding." 



POEMS 



BY 



SARAH L. BARNES. 



Qrrangrli bu \]tx IBrotijcr, 
HOWARD C. BARNES, 

HINGHAM, MASS. 



(( A'lu 2 )bd3^jl. 




PRIVATELY PRINTED. 



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Copyright, ISSS, 
By Howard C. Barnes. 



Univkrsity Press: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Myths 7 

Lines to a Mummy's Hand 10 

In Memoriam ^ 12 

The Blue Rose 13 

Passion-Flowers 15 

The Slave Ship 17 

One Night 18 

Vashti 20 

Mollie 23 

The Dreamer 24 

Praxiteles to Phryne 26 

FiLiA Maria 29 

A Song 31 

A "Song of Many Colors 32 

In the Ball-Room 33 

By the River 34 

On Weir River 35 

Pallida Mors 36 

A Song 37 

Hereafter 38 







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MYTHS. 



npHE mother sings unto her babe : 

" Beauty is vain and not to be desired ; 
The good alone are loved." 
The babe, each day she older grows, 
Shall find the fairy-lore of babyhood 
Is far more true than is her mother's tale. 
Beauty alone gives woman power, 
Alone can win man's selfish heart. 
Alone that selfish heart can pain ; 
Merit may hold her hand to Love, 
And Intellect try silver speech ; 
Beauty, though dumb, shall win the day, 
And prove thy mother lied. 



MYTHS. 

The father speaks unto his son : 

" O, brave young heart, Ambition shun, 

For only woe her followers whi." 

Blind love ! that cannot see 

How grand Ambition sits above, 

How high in stately majesty o'ertops 

The little virtues men do woo. 

But if the youth, unheeding, climb 

So high he gazes on her face, 

Her regal brow snow crowned. 

He '11 kiss her garment's hem, and die ; 

And, dying, thrill with noble joy 

To know his father lied. 

The poet sings unto the world 

Of Patience' calm sweet face, 

The blessings rare that fall on those 

Whose brows her fillet wear. 

But aching hearts too soon do find 

She 's Sorrow's sister, twin to Pain. 

With time doth Sorrow's hold grow faint ; 

Pain, though severe, is brief ; 

She, like a gaunt and cruel wolf, 

Her victim followeth, — till Death, 



MYTHS. 

More merciful, beareth away her prey. 
The writing on the still cold face 
Proclaims the poet lied. 

Man tells to man the crimes of Pride, — 
The pygmies, hurling shafts because 
They know her not ! Their puny selves 
Can see no higher than themselves. 
Virtue from Vice may snatch a wretch, — 
Her thousands Pride, yet asks no thanks. 
When Life on crimson tide recedes, 
False Hope and pale Religion flee ; 
Pride lays her hand upon the wound, 
Her fiery touch the flow doth stanch. 
The scar her royal mantle hides. 
And kingly port alone reveals 
That man hath lied to man. 




LINES TO THE MUMMY'S HAND AT 
THE ART MUSEUM, BOSTON. 

T N the tropic Egypt land, 

How many centuries ago. 
Did living crimson, ardent flow 

Through this frail hand ? 

Did a Pharaoh's burning kiss 
E'er own thy dusky beauty queen ? 
Or hadst thou then for ages been 
A thing like this ? 

Wert thou that frail and sensuous clay 
That failed the Hebrew boy to move, — 
Damned to all time, for that wild love. 
This ruin to display ? 

The power of beauty has been sung 
Since Sons of God, from upper air 
Gazing, had found Earth's Daughters fair, 
When Earth was young. ^ 



LINES TO A MUMMY'S HAND. 



With reverent longing filled, 
I ask if with th' ecstatic bliss 
Of a dread archangel's kiss 
This dead dust thrilled ! 

My listening soul, with curious awe, 
Demands reply ; listening in vain, — 
Dashes itself in restless pain 
Against God's law. 

Burning with desperate fire, 
Man peers into God's mysteries ; 
And blackened dust like this defies 
His soul's desire. 

Knowledge and Age and Wisdom come 
To humbly own this truth at last : 
The Infinite o'errules the Past, 
The Sphinx is dumb. 




IN MEMORIAM. 

/^H not to all the angels risen 

From out the bonds of earthly prison, 
Return the youthful hue and grace; 
Some still retain their earthly face, 
Marked with the majesty of age, — 
Recorded on a deathless page. 
Thy grand old face amid the stars 
Looks down through intervening bars ; 
The love and tenderness are there. 
With added strength, — that thou may'st bear 
To see, without the power to aid. 
The suffering on thy loved ones laid. 
'T is well, else we should pray to thee, 
And thus rob God's divinity. 



THE BLUE ROSE. 



"II n'y a eu la qu'une rose bleiie ; c'est a dire, une rose que 
Ton reve, que I'on respire, mais que fon ne cueille JatJiais." 



" T^AIR are the flowers you hold, my child, 

But far on the heights, amid the blue. 
There groweth the fairest rose, 
With petals of heavenly hue." 
"And hast thou seen it, my nurse, I pray? " 
"Nay, little lordling, I 'm common clay. 
Those who but see it in dreams, I know, 
See never more the flowers below ; 
For him who but breathes its faint perfume, 
A joy ineiTable doth bloom." 
"Then, nurse, no other rose for me !" 
" Nay and alas, my child ! " said she. 

Far up the heights he climbed, 

In the blushing morn ; 
The rose he grasped with eager hand 
Flushed as the dawn. 



13 



THE BLUE ROSE. 



On a snowy crest he stood, 

Alone in the mid -day Hght ; 
And the rose he wore upon his breast 
Was pure and white. 

The weary feet toiled on ; 

At the sunset's golden flood, 
The rose he held in his fevered hand 
Was red as blood. 

Sung the dying child, 

At the midnight hour : 
" He must climb to dizzier heights than I, 

Who plucks the fabled flower. 

O fair pale rose, and blushing rose, 

Rose with the heart of fire. 
Ye all were fair, yet your beauty fades 

To the rose of my desire." 

Bending low 'neath her weight of years. 
The old nurse muttered through her tears : 
" As the finger of Death thine eyelids close, 
Thou seest at last the accursed rose." 



14 



PASSION-FLOWERS. 

npO love, and love but once, be mine ! — 
To drain my cup at one deep draught, 
And thirst the rest of weary life, 

Than that a wine less red be quaffed ! 

Let Love's torch to its socket burn, 
Then grope my way in darkest night ; 

Once lighted by his radiant beam. 
Let me not know a glowworm's light. 

Let Love's kiss, burned upon my brow, 
Bide virgin there, until the mould 

Shall in that peaceful, long embrace 
Its sister clay at last enfold. 



Fairer to me my withered hand. 

Than aught that rosy 3'outh could show ; 
For through its fibres came the thrill 

That made my life-blood madly flow. 



15 



PASS/ON-FL O WERS. 



My whitened locks are fair to nie, 

For on their gold his breath exhaled ; 

Nor do I wish my lips were young, — 
Beneath his lips their crimson paled. 

Through noisy strife of struggling years, 
The clash of arms and bitter wrong, 

My ear hears ever the delirious beat, 

The wild sweet music of that fleetins: sonsf. 

No pity ! I 'd that one sweet hour, 

Worth lifetimes of a tamer love. 
At one quick grasp I crushed my flower ; 

Its bruised fragrance breathed, no more I 'd 
prove. 

Do I love now ? Perhaps I hate ; 

I could not hate had I not loved so well; 
But which is hate and which is love, — 

I dare not ask, I could not tell. 

" Mad " ? Not while that memory is mine. 

"Repent " ? Not while my heart shall beat. 

Could youth return, — thus dying I repeat, - 
I 'd love and lose, and live but to remember it. 



i6 



I 



THE SLAVE SHIP. 

[Sug^esLd />y Turner's Picture at the Art Museupt.] 

T O, a lurid gleam of hell, 

To which drifts on the cursed ship ! 
The seething waters leap in glittering strength 
To toss dead men in chains. 
Lo here, lo there, a clenched hand is seen, 
In Dearth's wild clutch of agony ! 
Above the purple horror gleams 
The iron impress of man's tyranny. 
Eises a rigid foot, that once was free ; 
And weird, unshapely monsters of the Deep, 
Fierce-eyed with horrid hunger, 
Crowd round the ghastly feast ; 
While shuddering Night sends from the East 
A misty shroud to hide the damned. 







17 



ONE NIGHT. 

r\ TROPIC Night ! thy fervid glow, 

Of passion, love, and whispering sweet, 
Still sends its warm breath 
Through the dim-lit halls of marble memory, 
Lo ! after nights grow cold, 
And daylight pales to mistiness ; 
And in my midnight I do oft remember, — 
Ah, could I but forget ! and you ? 
Unto your restless eyes the years may bring 
The changing scenes the world holds fair ; 
But close thine eyes, and, burned on them. 
Shall rise that other night 
Of wild, sweet madness, sweet unrest 
Of passion-flowers, and bitter-sweet, — 
That night I must remember. 
That you can ne'er forget. 
The river Lethe long run dry, 
The salt tears still must fall 
And lips grow old and cold. 



ONE NIGHT. 



Not chance, but unrelenting Fate 

Showed us the morning light, — 

Came to us o'er the graves of buried sinners ; 

Till over ours the sunlight comes 

To other, happier lovers. 

This is our cross, our pain ; 

No memory of the fair-robed Day 

Shall pale the radiance 

Of that distant Night. 



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19 



VASHTI. 

T^ARKNESS pervades the room, 

Save where gleams on marble pillars fall. 
Heavy the air with perfumes laden ; 
Through sultry stillness of the gloom 
A sob alone doth shiver. 
Through rifted drapery the Sun 
Now sends a curious glance ; 
It falls upon a queen. 
Her burning eyes out-gleam 
The jewels in her crown, — 
Twin flames within a marble shrine I 
To be so pale, and breathe ! 

She speaks : " Shut out this garish light, ye slaves ; 
Unto the dead the dark. 
Rings in my ear the stern decree, 
' On the King's face Vashti looks no more.' 
Ye gods, to whom I offerings bore, 
Would that your awful power were mine. 
One moment out of endless time ! 
And then you might your vengeance wreak 
On ages yet to come. 
When, mad with wine, he gave command. 



VASIITL 

To crown the feast I should unveil 

To drunken revellers about the throne, 

I did refuse. I scorned their lower praise, 

For I had known the King's. 

The Jewish woman, that usurps my place, 

Dared even death to come before him ; 

And he in mercy held the sceptre out. 

I did deny the King, but she defied the law. 

Mercy for her ! For me ? — Oh, what were death. 

Like to this pain I bear ? 

' On the King's face Vashti looks no more ! ' 

That kingly sentence — O my Lord — 

Xerxes alone could speak. He knew 

Death could not quell the haughty heart, 

Nor blanch the face, on which one look, 

And the proud boast ' Law altereth not,' 

Was void ; and, from his royal lips, 

Whose summer sweetness mine have known, 

Fell slow the ringing words, — 

Words through the centuries to sound, — 

' On the King's face Vashti looks no more.' 

The King whose power a world hath known, 

Whose fetters hold the changing sea, 

A woman hath defied. 



VASHTI. 

Ay, hold thy trembUng Esther close ! 
The blood of kings is in my veins. 
Thy waking hours the Jewess claims ; 
King though thou art, I rule thy dreams. 
' On the King's face Vashti looks no more ; ' 
But in thy heart is Vashti still the Queen." 

The sultry day drew to its close ; 
The ardent Sun burned to the edge 
Of Persia's proud domain ; 
Pillowed upon the Night's dark breast, 
Noble and shepherd slumbered deep- 
But on a royal couch a King moved restlessly ; 
And in the gloom, where paced a Queen, 
The dull Night heard what Day saw not, — 
The slow, relentless dripping of the tears 
That could not ease the bitter moan, — 
"On the King's face Vashti looks no more." 



MOLLIE. 

T SEE, through dimpled finger-bars, 

The soft light of those twilight stars ; 
Then shyly raised those eyes to mine, 
Half hidden by the gold hair's shine. 
The royal grace of babyhood 
Was on my Mary-bud, 



My Mollie. 


I felt thy arms about my neck. 


Thy golden head my bosom deck ; 


For coaxing kisses, told my store 


Of old-time stories o'er and o'er. 


And changed sad tales with loving art, 


Fearing to grieve thy tender heart, 


My Mollie. 


Few pages of life's story turned 


Ere yet its sadness thou hadst learned ; 


Death, pitying, loosed thy gentle hold ; 


And angel lips the story told 


To thee, and left to me 


Only a memory 

Of Mollie. 



23 



I 



THE DREAMER. 

WRITE my poem 
In words that burn, 
Through the long, long hours of night; 
Lo ! the stolen flame 
Bears another name, 
When read by the morning light. 

With unearthly beauty. 

My dream-brush glows, 
On Dreamland's walls so fair; 

Lo ! I find my ideal 

Another's real, 
And mine hath vanished in air. 

From the fairest marble 

In Fancy's realm, 
I am shaping my glorious thought; 

From Art's proud walls, 

Lo ! a statue calls, 
A thief, while I dreamed, hath wrought. 



24 



THE DREAMER. 



So another weareth my laurel wreath, 

Another's brow my crown ; 
And while I ponder this bitter wrong, — 

How to sing, that the ear 

Of the world may hear, — 
Lo, another hath sung my song ! 







25 



PRAXITELES TO PHRYNE. 

r\ PHRYNE, when I gaze on thee, 

Then on my marble I despair. 
Then through my being steals a glow ; 
Then well 1 know that had my hand 
But half the cunning of mine eye, 
I 'd shape, from cold unfeeling stone, 
A form to make time yet unborn 
Before the sculptor's power bow down. 
Then in the madness of a dream 
I feel the stone grow into life. 
I shape the curves of that fair arm, 
And dare not think the living hand 
Hath dallied with my hair. 
I feel my breath come hot and quick. 
As, with thy dainty foot in view, 
I cut the stone, and it is cold ; 
The living foot — on which I dared, 
One day, in lover's transport wild. 
To press my eager lip aflame — 
Was throbbing, warm and soft. 



PRAXITELES TO PHRYNE 



And oh, the beauty of the face 
That mocks my vaunted skill ! 
Alone, and gazing on my work, 
As artists love to gaze, 
I kneel, — but, Phryne, not to thee, - 
I kneel to ask the listening gods 
To give new cunning to my hand 
To shape thy counterfeit. 
When they, propitious to my prayer. 
Have let me shape thy glowing lips 
Till only speech is wanting there, — 
To catch the flying dimples' grace, 
The partial glory of thy smile, — 
Alas ! I know I 'm but a man ; 
For I could find it in my heart 
To dash the stone to shapeless bits. 
Than that another eye than mine 
Should gaze upon the marble form 
That images thy beauty. 

Yet, Phryne, I deserve of thee 
More than thine other lovers claim. 
They do but bring thee yellow gold, 
And pour it down beneath thy feet ; 



27 



I mantle thee with warmest love, 
And day by day prepare for thee 
Immortal and a glorious fame. 
Their love is wrought upon the air ; 
Mine in the everlasting stone. 
And yet I 'd give the hard-won fame 
The sunny years have brought to me, 
The skill the gods have given, — 
Yes, all I have, my wayward Love 
(Alas, and other men's beloved !) — 
Wert thou again the fisher-maid 
On Thespice's shore ; and I the lad, 
Who roved the restless sea by day, 
But at the eventide returned 
Unto my cot, my babes, and thee. 




28 



FILIA MARIA. 

T AY the pallid face of the dead 

Softly down on her quiet bed ; 
Fold the ringless, pale hands to rest, 
Mid the lilies asleep on her breast. 

A maiden old, and no longer fair, 
With silver glimpses in nut-brown hair ; 
Now softly we close the coffin-lid, 
So that her sorrowful smile be hid. 

She gave of her love its purest flame 
To th' ideal lover who never came ; 
Mother-love stifled, in grief forlorn, 
For little children that never were born. 

A soul to dare, and, seeking the light, 
Hopelessly longing to test its might ; 
A gentle heart 'neath the martyr's breast, 
Her martyrdom, that she found, no quest. 



FILIA MARIA. 



The saddest tears are the unshed tears ; 

The Unknown gives us the wildest fears ; 

Unsung forever the saddest song ; 

What has never been done is the deepest wrong. 

Perhaps, in that distant region blest, 
She rests on her unknown lover's breast ; 
And, in the glow of a heavenly morn, 
Caresses the children that never were born. 




A SONG. 

'"PHE revelling bee, 

In the apple-tree, 
Flitteth from flower to flower; 

I envy the bee, 

His revelling free, 
New loves for every hour ; 

But were I the bee 

I would fly to thee, 
Swift through the perfumed air ; 

From no other lip 

My honey I 'd sip. 
Bloom the roses never so fair, 

So fair - 
Bloom the roses never so fair. 




31 



A SONG OF MANY COLORS. 

/~\H, fold a purple mantle 

Above the crimson pain, 
And press the red-gold circlet 
About thy throbbing brain. 

Oh, let the thought be golden, 
And silver be the song, — 

Although thy heart be broken. 
So bitter is the wrong. 

And o'er the blackened ruin 
A snow-white garment wear. 

Until God's green shall cover 
Pale dust and gray despair. 




32 



IN THE BALL-ROOM. 



„ T\ai ifl cin Sltngcn unb Drcbncrt 
SJPii "Paufcn unb 3.talmcifn ; 
S^a^UMf^cn fi'Mudi^cn unb ftolinen 
2^ic giucn liiigclcin." 



T WATCH thee float in the silvery waltz, 

Mark the rhythm of foot-fall fleet ; 
And round and about thee rises and falls 
The throb of the music sweet. 

And were it my arm about thee, 

My soul would be lost in the prayer — 

That we might float on and forever, 
To wild music sounding fair. 

And while my senses are reeling. 
Still following thine airy tread. 

Through the music that winds about thee 
Thrills a sob and a thought of the dead. 



33 



BY THE RIVER. 



OLOW the mist riseth 

O'er each distant hill, 
Like some fearful phantom, 
So solemn and still. 



Now higher it riseth, 

Gray robes floating free ; 

It crosseth the river, 
And Cometh to me. 

My heart beats in sorrow. 
With dull throbs of pain ; 

For the joy of days past, 
Comes never again. 

In the sun of to-morrow 
The mist will depart ; 

But sorrow abideth 

With mv troubled heart. 



34 



ON WEIR RIVER. 

T FLOATED out into the night 

On the river's silent breast. 
Mid the low dark hills on either side, 
With darker verdure drest. 

I floated out into the night ; 

No sound from shore to shore, 
Save the restless chirp of a waking bird, 

And the dip of the silver oar. 

Then a star in the west arose, 
TJirew a golden chain to me ; 

And by its shining pathway 
I climbed, dead Love, to thee. 

But as thy phantom lips met mine, 
Lights gleamed along the shore ; 

And I heard but the river rippling, 
Saw only the glancing oar. 



35 



PALLIDA MORS. 

/^"\H, my Lord, he loved and lost 
So false a love ! 

Then love forswore ; 

Ambition filled his heart 

Forevermore. 
He died ; the granite pillar at his head 
Proclaims the virtues of the dead. 

Oh, my Lady loved and lost 

So false a love ! 

A lily grew the rose. 

She died ; and o'er her grave 

The white snow blows, — 

So wild a love, 
Hidden beneath the drifting snow. 

So resting side by side, 

So deep a grave ! 

And for all that pride. 

And for all that pain. 
When the springtime comes again. 
Deeper the tinge upon the tree. 
Redder the rose's flush shall be. 



36 



A SONG. 

/^H, love and joy are for a day, 

Then tears and sorrow after ; 
Oh, love is for a summer day, 
And then farewell to laughter. 

If love and joy are for a day, 
And then farewell to laughter, 

To live with love give me one day 
Though tears forever after. 




37 



HEREAFTER. 



ALL-FATHER. 



A QUESTION trembles on thine eager lip, 
My new-born Spirit ; speak ! 



SPIRIT. 

My Father, when I dwelt on earth, 

Thou gavest me a loving heart ; 

And yet through love my greatest suffering 

came. 
Why gavest thou the power to love ? 

ALL-FATHER. 

That thou mightst know the suffering. 

SPIRIT. 

Again thou gavest me ambition. 

Bravely I strove, my bleeding feet still striving ; 

Each step was failure. Why, O Majesty ? 

ALL-FATHER. 

That thou mightst fail. 



38 



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HEREAFTER. 



SPIRIT. 
And wherefore gavest thou thy servant life, 
Since he must know the grave ? 

ALL-FATHER. 

'T was only thus thou couldst know death. 

SPIRIT. 

To suffer, fail, and die, — 
Is that man's mission ? 

ALL-FATHER. 

Suffering brings the creature nearer God ; 
Failure fixes his hopes on Heaven,, 
And through the grave he wins it. 
Wouldst thou know more ? 

SPIRIT. 

Like the forgotten fragrance of a flower 
Comes the remembrance of an earthly prayer ; 
And from thy mantle, like a soothing balm, 
There falls on me the holy peace 
That passeth understanding. 



39 



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APR 81 

ST. AUGUSTINE 

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